


A Week in the Country

by burglebezzlement



Series: Mordelia & Priya [1]
Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Family, Gen, Greenhouses, Grimm family visit, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-05-04 10:38:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5331089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burglebezzlement/pseuds/burglebezzlement
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Baz and Simon visit Baz’s family at their new home. Mordelia isn't happy her big brother showed up with Simon Snow. Daphne has plans for the best visit ever, Simon is obliging, and Baz isn’t sure how he feels.</p><p>
  <i> Every time Baz came back from Watford, he’d have stories — the time Simon Snow killed an innocent dragon, and the time Simon Snow almost got eaten by werewolves, and the time Simon Snow went off on a chimera who happened to be in the forest for no reason at all.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Week in the Country

My name is Mordelia Pitch.

I live with my father, my mum, and sisters and brother.

Until the Christmas before last, we lived in Hampshire, but something happened and we had to move really quick.

I also have a big brother, Baz, who doesn’t live with us anymore. He left that Christmas and didn’t come back.

* * *

I’m the one who hears when Baz and Simon knock at the door.

When I open the door, they’re on the doorstep, suspiciously far apart from one another.

Simon Snow has wings now — I heard Father talking about them, but I haven’t seen them yet. They’re leathery and huge, like he’s half-dragon… 

He’s also wearing the most ridiculous clothing — worse than last Christmas. He’s got on _shorts_ , with sandals. His legs have little hairs all over them, wiry golden hairs, glinting in the sunshine.

Baz smiles. He’s noticed me staring at Snow. “I told you not to wear those ridiculous shorts here, Snow.”

“It’s _hot_ ,” Snow says, like that explains something. 

I step back from the doorway. “Won’t you come in?”

It’s not hot inside. He’ll be freezing inside.

* * *

Mum is the one who insisted that Father invite Baz _and Simon_. I think Father wanted to invite Baz, just Baz, but Mum said that Baz has chosen and we need to respect his decisions… I think she meant that Father needs to respect Baz’s decisions.

 _I_ don’t respect Baz’s decisions, but nobody asked me. 

Then Mum said that Romeo and Juliet wouldn’t have stayed together if their families hadn’t fought them on it, and that making Simon Snow into forbidden fruit was the worst thing Father could do. 

Father groaned, which usually means he doesn’t agree but he isn’t going to argue. 

So Mum invited Snow.

Mum says I have to call him Simon or Mr. Snow, not The Chosen One. I think that if you don’t want to be The Chosen One, you shouldn’t _let_ yourself get chosen, but Mum says that isn’t how it works.

Mum also says it’s not fair to blame Snow for everything that happened.

Baz was fine the summer before last. He’s my big brother but I only ever got to see him on holidays and summers. But then he disappeared before school, and _then_ he came back, but he was dead sick and covered in vomit. (Mum didn’t want me to see him like that, but I snuck looks through the doorway when she wasn’t looking. He smelled terrible too, I could smell him from the doorway.)

And _then_ Baz went back to Watford. And he came home for Christmas, but then Snow came and fetched him away. And then we all had to leave, Christmas Eve. Everything felt like burning and sucking and we had to have Vera fetch the presents from Father Christmas. We were in a hotel for Christmas — the house we live in now was shut down for the winter.

And Baz didn’t come back. 

* * *

Mum is dead polite when Snow comes in. “Mr. Snow! It’s a delight to have you here. I hope you had a pleasant trip.”

Snow blushes and mumbles something about calling him Simon, and she shakes his hand. 

Normally Mum would say how nice it was to _see him again_.

Snow is a lot less muddy this time. Also, he doesn’t have his powers.

Maybe we won’t need to move after this visit.

“Basilton,” Mum murmurs, leaving Snow and hugging Baz. “You look well.”

Baz looks bored. “Thank you.”

“Please come out to the garden. Do leave your things and they’ll be brought to your room.”

I see Baz’s eyebrow raising at the _your room_. He doesn’t know that Mum and Father fought for two weeks about that…. Father saying _I won’t have it_ and Mum pointing out that Father can’t station a guard next to Baz’s door to keep him there. 

Anyway, I think Mum remembers that Snow was frightened of the wraiths last time around. (Some Chosen One.) 

This house has way fewer wraiths, but we do have a couple ghouls and Dead-Watch Beetle (like a death’s-watch beetle, but already dead… also they’re bigger for some reason).

Mum just wants this visit to go well, which makes one of her, or maybe three if you count The Chosen One and Baz. 

* * *

Mum has had Vera set some tea and lemonade and little iced cakes out in the garden to welcome Baz and Snow. The cakes are under a **Keep your cool!** charm to keep them from melting. 

My sisters have been into them already, though. They’re wearing matching sundresses, which are covered with matching icing.

“You have a lovely garden,” Snow says, like it’s a line he’s rehearsed for a play.

“Thank you,” Mum says. Actually she hates this garden — she complains about it all the time. We never used to come here during the summer, just in autumn. She’s been working on making over the garden since we had to come here, and she’s driving the gardeners mad. But she doesn’t say this. 

Instead, she pours a lemonade and hands it to Snow. “Basilton, lemonade?”

Baz nods, looking away from the house.

“Your father sends his regards,” Mum says. “He’s on a call.”

Snow relaxes at this, but Baz looks tenser. 

Mum smiles. “Don’t worry, he’ll be joining us for dinner.” (Now it’s Snow’s turn to look worried.)

I eat cakes and listen to the conversation limp along until Mum decides that she’s had enough. “Simon, why don’t you let Basilton show you the house? I’ll just go speak to Mrs. Hopkins about dinner.”

* * *

Every time Baz came back from Watford, he’d have stories — the time Simon Snow killed an innocent dragon, and the time Simon Snow almost got eaten by werewolves, and the time Simon Snow _went off_ on a chimera who happened to be in the forest for no reason at all. 

Baz’s Aunt Fiona tells different versions of some of those stories, plus a story about Baz pushing Simon Snow down a flight of stairs. Baz never told me that one. Anyway, I always liked Baz’s stories best.

Baz doesn’t tell me stories anymore.

* * *

I knock on Baz’s door.

Simon Snow has been here for three days. Three days of Mum’s carefully-planned activities — mostly. Snow was polite about the tour of local churches, which was dead boring (and Mum made me come along). But he refused to get on the horse yesterday on Horseriding Afternoon. Right now he’s out leading a pony for the twins.

Baz has also been here for three days, but Mum doesn’t have activities planned for him like she has for Snow.

I knock again. “Can I come in?”

“You’re supposed to wait,” he says. His voice is muffled.

I push open the door. Baz’s legs are hanging out of the closet, and he’s surrounded by clothing. All over the floor — trousers, crumpled ties, rugby shirts… Baz never wears rugby shirts, but Mum likes buying them for him. Actually most of the stuff on the floor looks like stuff Mum bought.

“You’re supposed to _wait_ ,” Baz says again. “What is it?”

I lean against his wall. “What are you looking for?”

“If you must know, your mum has decided to invite the Beresfords and the Singhs and the Martins for dinner, and Simon doesn’t have anything to wear.” He glares at the closet. “Who packed my things? A drunk gardener?”

Mum is only _my_ mum to Baz when he’s angry at something. Also, he’d have his things organized if he ever came here to visit.

“You didn’t ask why I came,” I say.

Baz looks over at me. “Is Simon alright? He hasn’t been attacked by the pony, has he?”

I puff my lips out. “No.”

I’m here because I want _my brother_. But I’m not about to say so.

Baz doesn’t know about Mum’s arguments with Father over this dinner — _We need to show we’re not ashamed,_ she’d said. _We’re proud of our son and we’re welcoming the person he chooses to spend his life with._

Father didn’t take that well.

I look at Baz again. “What are you looking for?”

“A suit,” he says. 

I start folding the crumpled clothing the way I’ve seen Vera do. “Let me help.”

Baz runs his hands through his hair. “Fine.”

“Why didn’t you tell Simon to pack a suit?” I ask. I’m re-folding a stack of cashmere sweaters in gray and sage and tan. Baz never wears those colors, but Mum always buys them for him anyway.

“Simon doesn’t _have_ a suit,” Baz says. He runs his fingers through his hair, almost like Snow does. “Anyway, I thought this was supposed to be a family visit.”

I shrug. I think Mum wants buffers… she’s only making Father spend a little bit of time with Snow, and when Father is spending time with Snow, she’s making sure someone other than Baz is there. 

* * *

Father isn’t there at lunch, which Mum has served in the garden. She’s been keeping most of the meals outdoors — I’m not sure why. Maybe Simon’s wings. Snow and his wings managed to sweep a vase off one of the niches yesterday. It wasn’t a vase Mum liked but I know she doesn’t want Snow to feel badly.

After lunch is over, Snow looks over at Mum. 

She smiles. “Mordelia, would you and Simon like to select some flowers for the table this evening?” She produces a trug and secateurs. “I’m sure Simon would enjoy seeing the table flowers.”

Mum must have noticed that I’m avoiding Snow almost as much as Father. I look down at the table, and then nod. 

Baz likes Snow, there must be something he likes about him.

Snow’s been on the garden tour with Mum already. He knows the way down to the greenhouses, but he lets me lead. “So what sorts of flowers do you like, Modelia?”

Pitcher plants, I think. Flytraps. Plants that eat things with wings. “Mum’s the gardener, not me.”

“They’re beautiful gardens.” Snow looks around. “So when do you go off to Watford?”

“Not for ages,” I say.

Snow’s slowed down — he’s looking at a bit of wild buttercup in the hedgerow. “Should we include this?”

“It’s not a _table flower_ ,” I tell him, but he’s already clipping it with the secateurs. Mum’s given us her favorite secateurs. She keeps them inside so the gardeners won’t get them dirty or let them lose their edge. 

Snow doesn’t know to wipe the blades, just sets them back in the trug and smiles down at me. “What’s your favorite color?”

“Black,” I tell him, because there are no black flowers, not this time of year. Mum grows all colors of tulips, even black, but she’s never been a fan of black flowers the rest of the year.

Snow smiles again. “I’d expect nothing less.”

“We’re meant to be in the greenhouse,” I tell him. I start walking faster. 

Mum is still working with the gardeners on the greenhouses — when we walk into the table flower house, it’s hot and damp, and half-empty.

Snow still looks impressed though. “It’s beautiful,” he says, taking a deep breath. He sets the trug down on one of the empty growing tables. “What sort of flowers do you want?”

I shrug. “You’re the guest.”

“I like yellow,” Snow says. (Of course he does.) He starts wandering around the tables, and picks out Gerbera daisies and Gypsophila and snapdragons, all in shades of yellow and white. The colors match but the shapes and sizes don’t work together at all.

Snow doesn’t know how to cut flowers — he hacks the stems off straight, and far too high up for a proper arrangement. 

“You’re doing that wrong,” I say, and he lets me cut the lilies. I pick pink ones. I hate pink but the flowers need something… not yellow. Or white.

“Do we need anything else?” Snow asks, once the trug is mostly full of his crap flower choices.

“Greens,” I say. Snow hacks off some ferns.

He still hasn’t wiped the secateurs, so I do. Even though I know Mum won’t be angry with Snow.

It feels cooler outside after being in the greenhouse. We bring the flowers back up to the kitchen — it’s even cooler inside the house, even though Mrs. Hopkins has been cooking all day for the dinner tonight.

“Flowers?” she says, looking up. “Set them on the table, then. I’ll arrange them.” 

“You must be Mrs. Hopkins,” Snow says. “I’ve been enjoying your food all week. Delicious.”

Mrs. Hopkins smiles. “Thank you, young man. It’s a pleasure to cook for a hearty appetite.”

Snow starts raving about her shepherd’s pie and the bread rolls, and Mrs. Hopkins brings him a plate of biscuits. 

Mrs. Hopkins doesn’t normally feed me between meals — she isn’t supposed to, Mum doesn’t like it. But when I take one of the biscuits, she smiles at me.

* * *

I’m not invited to the dinner, but Mum lets me look at the flowers. Mrs. Hopkins has put them into vases where the short stems aren’t an issue; they look like tiny cauldrons with the flowers spilling out over the sides.

The buttercups don’t look as terrible as I thought they would. But I still don’t like pink.

* * *

I’m reading a book in the library when Baz comes in.

I’m not hiding, but if he can’t see me behind the green velvet curtain across the window seat, that’s not _my_ fault.

I don’t _hide_. I just make selective choices about advertising my presence.

Baz picks up his violin. He’s been in here a lot over the past few days, playing mournful, angry music while Snow plays Candyland with my sisters or peak-a-boo with my brother. (He’s too old for that. I mean they both are.)

I caught Mum with earbuds in while Baz was playing yesterday — she says she supports his talent but she does wish he’d play some Brahms once in a while. 

I don’t hear Snow come in, but I do hear Baz break off his playing and set down the violin. “Snow.”

“Your stepmum said you were in here,” Snow says. I hear the sofa creak as he flops down.

“So I am,” Baz says. He doesn’t sit down.

Snow sighs. “Sit down, will you?”

Baz is quiet for a moment, and then I hear the sofa as he does.

“Look. Baz. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Baz says.

Snow snorts. “Don’t even try that. You’ve been in here playing all week.”

“Maybe I don’t want to distract Penny by practicing at the flat.”

“You practice at your Aunt Fiona’s,” Snow says. “Sometimes I think that’s the only thing you do there. But — look, Baz, I’m not _stupid_. I know this visit is important to you. And I thought it was going really well. Except for you. So what’s wrong?”

“You’re going to think it’s stupid,” Baz says.

“Probably.” Simon sounds amused. “What is it?”

“They aren’t supposed to like you more than _me_ ,” Baz says, all in a rush.

“What?” Simon sounds confused. No more so than I am, sitting here _selectively displaying my presence_ on the windowsill.

“They all _like_ you,” Baz says, like he’s accusing Snow of a crime. “This was supposed to be _hard_ for you. And you’re in there playing with my siblings and helping Daphne deadhead the roses. And losing at Candyland to toddlers. Snow, you’re absolute pants at Candyland.”

“I will have you know I am _brilliant_ at Candyland,” Snow says. “You’re supposed to lose to children. Didn’t you know that?”

“I always won,” Baz mutters. “Without help.” 

They’re quiet for a few moments, and then Snow speaks again. “Look, I don’t think they do like me — yet. I think we’re all trying. And we’re all trying because we all love you.” He pauses. “Eejit.”

“My father still hates you,” Baz says, but I can tell he’s smiling now.

“Yeah.” Snow gets up. “And your Aunt Fiona.”

“I think she’s coming round,” Baz says. “She hasn’t hexed you for weeks.”

“Because she’s in Prague.” Snow stops talking and I have a feeling that if I peeked around the curtain, I’d see them very close together.

* * *

Baz is sitting on one of the sofas on the veranda, drinking lemonade by himself and watching Simon play tag with my sisters in the garden. 

“I like you better than Simon,” I say all in a rush. “I do.”

When he hears me, he looks confused for a moment. “What?”

“I said I like you better than Simon.” I bite my lower lip.

Baz sits down on the sofa next to me. “Have you been eavesdropping?”

“It’s not my fault if you don’t see me,” I say. “I just thought you’d like to know.”

“Thank you,” Baz says, putting an arm around me and ruffling my hair. Normally I protest this treatment, but this time I let him. 

We used to sit like this more often when I was little.

“Tell me a story,” I ask now, looking out at my sisters tearing about on the grass. 

“A story?” Baz asks. “Okay. What about the story of how your amazing brother defeated the Mage and the Insidious Humdrum, and your Uncle Simon maybe helped a little?”

“He’s not my uncle,” I say. “I asked Mum. She says if you get married he’d be my brother in law.”

“Married?” Baz looks over at Simon, who has allowed my sisters to tackle his ankles and drag him to the grass. “I thought you liked me better than Simon.”

I huff. “I do. But I didn’t say I didn’t like him at all.”

Baz laughs. “Thanks, Little Puff.”

I let him stroke my hair for a bit, and then sit up. “But this story. Mum says Simon was the one who defeated them.”

“Actually, Simon defeated the Humdrum. Penelope Bunce is the one who defeated the Mage, really.” Baz sounds a bit embarrassed by this.

“Okay,” I say. “Tell me the story where my heroic big brother defeats the Mage, and the Humdrum. And maybe Simon helps a little.”

And Baz starts telling me a story.

And maybe having two big brothers wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.


End file.
